


But I am bound upon a wheel of fire

by TweedStoat



Series: The Ladies Rebellion [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Ableism, Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Dany and Jon are here but more in the background, Elia Martell Lives, F/M, I'm serious I depict them as having an extremely unhappy marriage, Minor Elia Martell/Baelor Hightower, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, NOT FOR RHAEGAR/LYANNA SHIPPERS, Period-Typical Sexism, Rhaella Targaryen Lives, Rhaella is 100 percent done with this shit, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, girl just wants to retire and be in peace but she has sole possession of the Targ family braincell, ok now i've warned you it's your fault if you read this, they arent really main characters in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TweedStoat/pseuds/TweedStoat
Summary: “When the baby was presented to Rhaegar's parents at court, Queen Rhaella embraced her granddaughter warmly” – A World of Ice and FireRhaegar won the Rebellion, and thirteen years later, the marriage he has arranged for his daughter Rhaenys is the linchpin holding together his grand prophetic plans. Unfortunately for him, Rhaella Targaryen loves her only granddaughter and she has a few plans of her own.
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Rhaella Targaryen & Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia)
Series: The Ladies Rebellion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063757
Comments: 59
Kudos: 95





	But I am bound upon a wheel of fire

_ Psalm 37:35 _

_ "I have seen the wicked in great power and flourishing like a green bay tree." _

It’s a terrible day to be in the garden. Storm clouds have been hanging low in the sky since morning, and the air lies thick and hot over them like a heavy blanket, yet it still has not rained. 

Rhaella should have put off her party but the truth is she was simply too exhausted. She didn’t want to have to put on her crown and her gown and her smile and face the prospect of doing this all over again.

So when she’d seen the clouds gathering ominously on the horizon, she'd simply refused to change her plans and now here they are, artists and ladies alike, mingling around her garden and sweating through their powders and silks.

Rhaella swats at one of the flies swarming around her with her jade fan, batting them away from the sweet cup of melon wine in front of her. Normally it would already be gone, but for some reason she has no taste for sweet things today.  _ It’s so thick and dark, _ she thinks as she swirls it around in distaste,  _ it looks like a cup full of blood _ .

She’s been planning this little function for weeks now, and she really should be intervening with her artisans, helping the ladies she has invited to find the best price for whatever bauble they choose, smoothing over indelicate conversation, and being the perfect hostess, but she barely has the energy to get up from her chair or look around her. It isn’t even the heat; she suspects her years of tireless work are finally catching up with her. 

She has had to do all this since she was fourteen for Aerys, with no help and no guidance after her mother and grandmother died at Summerhall. And now thanks to her son’s laxity she must do this for him as well.

It ground on her. The constant wariness, being on alert to ensure life at court moved on a steady course, watching the petty jealousies and plots of courtiers who bowed and scraped to her face but sharpened knives behind her back. 

Men are so unaware of the long and weary work that goes into making their lives continue on in a placid and steady stream. She feels like a rock on a riverbank, worn smooth after years of struggling to hold the torrent at bay.

She had thought that when Aerys finally died, she would be able to pass the reins along to Elia and be the queen dowager in peace. Leave for Dragonstone with a few ladies and her septas and spend the rest of her life in quiet enjoyment. What a jape.

Her son’s new wife - and it has been nigh on 13 years but she still thinks of Lyanna Stark as her son’s new wife - was simply not trained for the gruelling task of queenship. Truthfully in those first difficult years when everything was chaos and Elia had left, when she had attempted everything to try and make the Stark girl shoulder the responsibilities of her new role, Rhaella sometimes wondered if Lyanna was even trained to be a lady.

Her own Septas had made sure that Rhaella knew how royalty should conduct themselves, and all that training had paid off. When she was the queen outright, she had grit her teeth, done her duty and worked like a plough horse.

Before her marriage Rhaella was calm, pious, sweet and gentle. After her marriage Rhaella was all those things while she oversaw an army of servants, attended to charities, presided over feasts and tourneys, and fell pregnant nearly every second year.

Where was the sense in railing against it? It was simply the way things were. In her experience thinking or complaining were useless. As bad as her life had been, she always knew that Aerys was there with the potential to make things so much worse.

Well her efforts hadn’t mattered in the end. Lyanna had either spent her days sitting in bed, staring at the wall, not even eating or sleeping or bathing. Or she went on long frenzied horse rides around the city that only ended when the horse was lathered, swinging between deep sorrow and an almost hysterical energy.

She'd been as unable to teach her new good-daughter the skills of Queenship as Aerys had been to teach Rhaegar the responsibilities that came with Kingship. In that respect she and Aerys were the perfect match. Failures, the both of them. Although she certainly managed to have the last laugh in the end. 

Thank the gods she has Rhaenys to rely on. Were the arduous task of queenship left solely up to her, in her old age, Rhaella would have torn her hair out by the fistful long ago. And then they’d have even more rumours of Targaryen madness swirling around!

At least the party is still carrying on fairly well. It was clever to hold it in her own private gardens. To create the illusion of an intimate gathering, when in truth most of the ladies here have barely managed to snatch two minutes of conversation with her.

The gardens had been a wedding present from her grandmother Betha, although privately Rhaella had always thought of it as more of an apology.

They’d originally been built by great-grandfather Maekar for his wife Dyanna Dayne, who had grown up surrounded by the sea, and wanted to be near it in the last few years she had before her sickness made her waste away.

It truly is a lovely view. It sits on an overhanging rock; the garden juts out at a height so that the city below is largely invisible, and the only thing that can be seen is the blue of the ocean.

Rhaella has worked on her garden for years. Aerys may have had the whole castle, but this little patch of dirt was  _ hers _ . She’s been slowly planting flowers and vines, letting them take root and creep along and bury their way into the ground. And they’ve all taken care of her in return.

Her sweet dead children are here too in a way. Shaena, Daeron, Aegon, and Jaehaerys who were stillborn had been cremated and their ashes interred in the family crypt on Dragonstone of course. But for every one of them she had planted a rose bush. She’d done the same thing whenever she had a miscarriage too. 

There they are – seven lovely rose bushes slipping up against the wall of the garden. She hopes their souls are all at peace, with the sound of the waves and the sharp salty smell of the sea around them. 

Today, however, the sea is far from peaceful. It’s a sickly churning grey, and is frothing around furiously to match the weather. Luckily, it seems like she is the only one who has noticed or cares.

Lana of Tyrosh is showing her embroidered fans to a crowd of women under the gimlet eye of her seamstress mother.

Sera of Myr, built like a battleship but with hands so slender and steady she’s made a fortune from painting miniatures is  _ telling _ her patrons what they want and briskly doing a roaring trade. It’s no wonder she’s Rhaella’s favourite, and the one with enough sense to help her arrange this whole thing.

There’s some new common girl too, Daisy, from a small backwater village in the Stormlands, holding up lacework so fine and delicate you can see straight through it. Rhaella has no idea where the girl learnt to sew like that. It’s as beautiful as anything sewn by a septa in a motherhouse in Oldtown. 

All her artisans are here despite the heat and the weather, and every single decorated fan they have made is being snatched up by eager ladies.

Her makeshift queenship is famous for many things, glittering balls, splendid tourneys, spectacles at every possible moment to distract the nobles and smallfolk alike from her son’s lack of leadership. But one of the items she has become best known for are her fans. They are her one and only concession to frivolity and she has drawers upon drawers full of them.

They’re scrumptious little things, dripping in lace and ribbons, painted with pious stories from the seven-pointed star, fluffed up with the feathers of exotic birds. The fan she is using as a fly swatter is made of strips of jade thin enough for light to pass through, shaped into leaves and dotted all over with tiny baby pearls.

Rhaenys had had the bright idea to introduce some of her artisans directly to ladies at a picnic so they would get patronage, and the ladies of the realm could have a keepsake to take home show off. The more people who talk about the splendour and majesty of the Targaryen court the better for them. Rhaella wants the veneer painted on so thick all the gaping cracks are invisible. 

It was clever to use fans too. Something as small as a decorated fan is nowhere near as expensive as jewels or new gowns, and their husbands can hardly berate them for frivolity if it gave them a chance to spend more time around the dowager queen and the two princesses.

However, the two princesses in question are nowhere to be seen. She is starting to worry; it isn’t like Rhaenys to shirk her duties. And wherever Rhaenys is Daenerys is sure to follow. Really, where  _ can  _ her girls be?

She is rudely distracted when she hears the mincing tones of Cersei Lannister blathering on about how wealthy, and accomplished and wondrous her family are.

Just like Lyanna, Rhaella still thinks firmly of Cersei as a Lannister. Perhaps she’s just getting stuck in her ways in her old age. 

After years of marriage and three children you’d think she’d think of her as a Marbrand, but no, there Cersei sits in her red-gold gown, having cleverly made he own radiance shine while seated next to chubby Ellyn Estermont, in a dark green gown that has seen better days. 

Cersei’s in high spirits, purring like a lioness in front of a fresh kill. She’s regaling Ellyn with tales of her seamstresses and jewellers while smirking and darting obvious glances at the darning in Ellyn’s left stocking, and the old-fashioned printed shawl she has draped over her shoulders. 

The poor child clearly hasn’t learned that the best way to deal with Cersei, or with any Lannister really, is to brazen it out. She’s wriggling around in her seat like an eel, and keeps tugging at her shawl and staring around for someone to come save her.

Even Rhaella knows Cersei is the victor when she sees Ellyn tug her shawl loose from her belt and use it to cover the fact that her own gown is not slashed in the new style with no jewel work or stomacher to liven it up. 

Cersei’s eyes are darting hungrily over Ellyn’s face and gleefully take in the awkward tugging and pulling, and how the tips of her ears have turned pink with shame and she sits back licking the blood off her chops as she looks around for a new victim to torment . 

Rhaella has never met a woman as silly and vicious as her in her entire life. Now she’s moved on to loudly interrupting Lady Mertyns’ stories about her sons to tell them about her Joffrey’s progression in the tiltyard and how he shall grow up to be a fearsome warrior.

She doesn’t know whether she should roll her eyes behind Cersei’s back like Margaery Tyrell is so obviously doing, or if she should take a leaf out of Virginia Fowler’s book and hide a scornful smile behind an open fan. 

Really it’s likelier that  _ she _ , in this late stage of her life, turns out to be a fearsome warrior than Joffrey. That boy is somehow both a vicious little bastard and the most irredeemable coward she’s ever had the misfortune to see. Her own grandsons outshine him in every way.

Why she would even pit her own girls against the Marbrand boy any day! She can still remember how Rhaenys had found him after he’d cut that poor little kitchen cat to ribbons and how they’d both gone rolling around the floor thrashing the living daylights out of each other. Jon Connington had stumbled upon them and had gotten a few scratches and bruises of his own trying to separate the brawling pair.

She isn’t sure whether he’s so awful because of the constant time he spends around that Grandfather of his, being shaped and twisted into the perfect little Lannister Lion, or because of Cersei’s suffocating coddling. It truly is one of the great mysteries of their age that a woman like that managed to produce children as sweet as Myrcella and Tommen. Then again they spend most of their time at Ashemark with their father so perhaps that explains it. 

What would her old friend Joanna think to see her son Tyrion so obviously passed over? Rhaella wonders. Joanna had been as proud as Tywin in her own way, nay, even prouder. With the prickly pride of a poor cousin who knows they exist only on the forbearance of their wealthy relations.

Rhaella isn’t sure whether Joanna would be silently thanking the Gods that her shameful second son was tucked away out of sight and out of mind at the rock. Or is she would be furious, that Cersei, like Tywin in so many ways, has managed to have her son as the heir in all but name while Joanna’s own son is passed over. Yet another victory for Tywin’s branch of the Lannister tree.

Joanna had her faults, like any other person of course, but underneath her pride and her tendency to overcompensate, she had a good generous heart, was the sort of placid, understanding person who helped you put your problems into perspective.

There’s not an ounce of generosity to Cersei. She will grab and snatch everything that is given to her and reach out with greedy fingers to take some more. Why just look at how many fans she is hoarding around her! And how white her knuckles are clutching her fan with the thistle flowers embroidered all over it.

Ah well, it’s Rhaella’s own fault. She’s requested Cersei come to court with her husband after Elia left, thinking that perhaps if Loreza’s girl had deserted her she could at least have Joanna’s daughter.

Truthfully Elia was nothing like Loreza either. Oh they were both certainly clever and witty but Elia lacked Loreza’s reckless optimism and her love of trouble. She was more like her father, gentle and cautious by nature, very slow to anger, and rather quiet. Loree on the other hand had once managed to get into four different arguments before dinner time and had happily forgotten everything the next day. 

She’d been the glue that held their little group together. Whenever Rhaella had another spat with Aerys over Joanna, or when Joanna became maudlin and prickly about being nothing but a poor relation of the Lannisters, Loreza would sweep into the room and talk them round in circles until they’d forgotten what made them sad in the first place. She had been the older sister Rhaella had never had, but so desperately craved, and the one person who bothered to sympathise with Joanna’s pointed ambitions.

The sad truth is that Rhaella wants her friends back and can’t have them. Cersei is not Joanna, Elia is not Loreza. They are dead and gone and she’s become a silly old woman trying to force their daughters to fit into the empty spaces they had left behind.

If only Elia had been a bit more like Loree, Rhaella thinks sadly, she may have had something of the past to hold onto. 

Then again if Loreza’s husband ever had the gall to do what Rhaegar did he would never have made it out of Harrenhal alive. Loree would’ve clobbered him to death with his own lance, tied his body to her horse, and ridden off, whooping in triumph.

_ So perhaps everything worked out for the best _ , she thinks to herself as she sighs and rises up from her seat to see to her guests.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The throbbing in her head had grown even worse somehow, and she has to surreptitiously work her fingers under her circlet so she can massage her temples while moving from group to group. It’s still disgustingly hot and everyone has grown more snappish and impatient as time goes on. 

Her daughter and granddaughter waltz into this oppressive scene and although the weather is still stifling it seems as though the sun has come out from behind a cloud.

Daenerys comes, skipping across the stone path on her bare feet with her slippers in one hand with Rhaenys floating along after her.

There’s something almost magical about her granddaughter. She’s a force of nature. Like a storm or a flood. Whenever she enters a room people pause, and every eye unerringly turns to her.

It isn’t her beauty, although she really is shockingly beautiful even by Targaryen standards. It isn’t the magnificence of her gowns or her jewels either — Viserys is always teasing her about dressing as plainly as a widow or a Septa. 

The only thing Rhaella can point to, the only thing that explains Rhaenys’ intense charm is that she is so very  _ alive _ . There she is walking as sedately as a matron, and yet she still manages to halt their party with all the abruptness of a sudden clap of thunder.

Dany has sent her a cheerful wave but made straight for Myrcella who seems rather grateful for the opportunity to wriggle away from Cersei and play with a new friend. She’s glad her daughter is such a friendly child; she was almost painfully shy at that age, and hated talking to strangers. 

Rhaenys on the other hand comes and sits right beside her. Her blue-black hair is swirling down her back underneath a diaphanous veil, and her brown skin is as gold and glowing as the sunlight dappling through the trees.

She looks worried. She’s carrying it off well and smiles and pays compliments to ladies she passes by but Rhaella knows her Rhaenys and she can tell when something is wrong.

In her low pleasant voice, she says, “I am so sorry I’m late grandmother, the Master of Coin told me there was a problem with some of our donations to charities and I’ve been held up with him all morning.”

Now that people have stopped straining their ears to hear about the reason behind the princesses' lateness Rhaenys sits next to her on the bench and whispers, “There’s been the most awful row.”

Rhaella raises a slim blonde eyebrow. “A row over what, sweetling?”she asks, offering her a glossy pink cake covered with little strawberries and slices of candied lemon.

She gives an un-ladylike snort in response. “Joffrey, who else.” She grabs a red fan covered in bejeweled pomegranates from the table in front of them and uses it to cover her mouth while she licks icing off her fingers. “Jon found him and said he was lurking shiftily around the armoury looking like he was trying to pinch something. So of course he couldn’t hold his tongue, and accused him of being a thief, and then Joffrey called him a lying bastard.”

“Oh dear Gods.”

“Mmm yes,” she says, daintily brushing away the crumbs around her mouth and scowling. “Well, you can guess what happened then. Jon saw red and grabbed him by the throat and beat the living daylights out of him.”

Rhaella rubs her forehead and has to resist the urge to groan out loud. The throbbing in her head has gotten worse. _Now I know I’ll_ _have Tywin moaning and glowering at me tomorrow,_ she thinks, _going on about_ _the “dishonour” of letting a prince of dubious birth like Jon touch his precious grandson_.

Most men would be happy with a second son but Rhaegar isn’t most men and Jon isn’t most second sons. Rhaella knows Rhaegar didn’t want a boy and barely seems to know what to do with the one he was given. Jon may not actually be a bastard after his legitimization, but you wouldn’t be able to tell that from the way Rhaegar behaves and the way the courtiers whisper.

Joffrey’s been in fine form recently too, only a while ago he’d been caught viciously twisting a stable-boys arm behind his back because he hadn’t brushed his horse down correctly. Apparently the poor lad’s arm had been wrenched so badly he’d dislocated something.

Sometimes Rhaella thinks that Joanna really was the only Lannister on this earth with more sense than pride. The rest of those fools haven’t the brains the Gods give a goose. 

“If it isn’t just like Jon to throw caution to the wind and let that little fool bait him,” Rhaenys says sniffing disapprovingly. “Heaven forbid he shows some restraint, or sense.”

Rhaella indulges herself for a moment and rolls her eyes at her granddaughter as though she is the young girl. “Yes, and I’m sure you’ve always been the pinnacle of restraint around Joffrey.”

Rhaenys dramatically holds the fan to her heart and in a shocked falsetto voice proclaims, “I have  _ no _ idea what you’re talking about.” Rhaella just looks at her and Rhaenys immediately breaks character, grins, and cuts into a wheel of buttery cheese. “If you’re referring to what he did to that poor cat, he got what he deserved.” She waves the cheese knife around airily for emphasis. “Anyway, a cat isn’t the same thing as a knife. Jon could have just called for someone and told them.”

“Is he alright?” Rhaella asks.

“Oh yes, Jon’s a bit banged up but I took him to the maester and he couldn’t find anything serious. Joffrey’s much worse, he’ll be black and blue and swollen all over come morn,” she says, swiping her grandmother’s melon wine. 

Rhaella looks slyly at Rhaenys and can’t resist teasing her. “Such little care for poor Joffrey. I thought you liked cats. Don’t lions count then?”

Rhaenys starts laughing in the middle of a sip, and then coughing and spluttering into the goblet. “Grandmother! Don’t make me laugh when I’m drinking something! I’m like to choke!”

Rhaella starts laughing herself at this and they are giggling together like naughty children with their arms around each other and their faces pressed close together.  She can smell the scent of the oils they use in their hair wafting together. Crisp golden apples for Rhaenys and the dark red scent of carnations for herself. 

“My dear girl what are you laughing about?” 

Their moment of fun is broken up by Lady Danelle Staedmon, a cheerful widow of advancing years who has outlived three husbands. If court gossip can be believed, she was responsible for sending the first one off ahead of his time. 

“I’m teasing her Grace for having an outside picnic in such appalling weather, my Lady!” Rhaenys says archly. 

Lady Steadmon smiles at this and beckons her over. “Come over here and let me look at you, child. I was promised time with the royal princesses and artists at this party and so far, I’ve only seen the artists.”

Lucky Lady Danelle, she’s as old as the hills, so she can be as flippant as she wants about her courtesies. Rhaenys rises cheerfully to go where she has been called. “Goodness,” she says in a low amused voice, “I can’t wait till I’m 80 years old, all my teeth have fallen out of my head, and I can tell everyone exactly what I think of them.”

Rhaenys gracefully folds herself down into a heap and doesn’t even flinch when Lady Danelle puts her pudgy face very close to hers, and looks intently at Rhaenys. “Hpmh. Well it’s nice to see these painters aren’t all shameless liars,'' she says, nodding in satisfaction.

“My Lady?” Rhaenys asks.

“Oh I’ve seen a portrait of you hanging up in Penrose's castle. They’re very proud of their Targaryen blood you know. They always manage to get their hands on the most recent portraits of ‘their cousins the Targaryens’,” Lady Staedmon responds, sticking her nose in the air in a perfect imitation of snobbish Jeyne Penrose.“I love beautiful things, even if I can barely see out of my left eye, and let me tell you when I saw that portrait of you I didn’t care how vulgar it was, I offered then and there to pay Jeyne any sum she wanted. We had a fight, but I won in the end.”

Rhaella remembers that portrait very well. She and Rhaegar had a bit of a stoush over it themselves, but now it hangs in pride of place in her own solar, right next to the one of Aunt Rhaelle.

“I’m delighted that you liked my painting so much, my Lady,” Rhaenys replies, polite as always. 

“Oh, of course,” the Lady responds, waving a hand. “But I didn’t think the painting was true to life! You really must be one of the most beautiful young ladies I’ve ever seen. And I’m so old I’ve seen my fair share of them I can tell you.” She cackles and leans in conspiratorially, “I bet you’ve made half the gentlemen around here miserable! They’re probably moping around after you and making sheep’s eyes.”

Rhaenys smiles at this and doesn't rise to the bait to brag about her suitors. “I do hope I haven’t made anyone unhappy.”

“Ah nonsense!” the old lady cries. “If you ask me, some of these young fools could use a little unhappiness. Most of their heads are so swollen it would be doing everyone a favour to cut them back down to size.” 

Rhaenys has been valiantly trying to resist but she’s grinning against her will now. “My Lady, I think I’m beginning to understand why your sigil is a dagger piercing a bleeding heart.” 

Lady Steadmon mockingly bows her head in response.

Instead of falling prey to the attempts to get her to mock the gentlemen of the court, Rhaenys tactfully steers the conversation into the much safer waters of gardening.

While they discuss the bed of marigolds she has been allowed to tend in her grandmother’s garden, she cuts the freshest blooms and presents them in a pretty little bouquet to Lady Steadmon’s young niece who takes them bashfully and buries her face in her great-aunt’s skirts.

The little girl seems too overcome to say thank you, so the old lady does the honours and calls out to Rhaella, “Pretty, witty and kind! Your Grace you should be proud of this one!”

Rhaella smiles one of her first genuine smiles of the day and raises her glass to that.

Against all odds things seem to be going better. Cersei is being distracted by Genna Lannister and an assortment of glittering fans covered in shards of marcasite. Daenerys and Myrcella have abandoned their walk and are playing with Tommen, rolling a green wooden hoop around and chasing after it. 

Rhaella’s protégées are rapidly offloading their wares and everyone has been delighted by their new trinkets; the arrival of the two pretty princesses seems to have livened everyone up. 

So naturally this tranquillity is shattered the next moment by some nosey old biddy calling out and asking when Princess Rhaenys is to be married. Are the rumours of a betrothal true or is she still a free woman?

Rhae’s smile melts off her face for a moment only to be hitched back on in the next. Dany’s head has whipped around, and the hoop goes skittering off into a bed of devil’s trumpet. Rhaella can feel her own shoulders tensing and climbing up to roughly the same level as her ears.

It’s – well. It’s expected and of course as a royal princess it’s her duty to marry. And they’ve delayed Rhae’s betrothal considerably longer than usual, but it still isn’t something Rhaella  _ wants _ . She’d like to keep her girls with her as long as possible and to that end whenever someone so much as suggests a betrothal she delays and prevaricates as much as possible.

Like sharks taking bait, the assembled ladies have smelt blood in the water and made straight for it. Their voices rise in a cacophony suggesting their own brothers, or nephews or sons, or grandsons, and mocking the suggestions of others as ridiculous. 

The usual suggestions of the sons of all the High Lords are finished and now they are onto—

“Brynden Blackwood! He’s a tall, handsome boy, and very chivalrous too, your Grace,” a pretty dark-haired girl says – a Vance, Rhaella thinks. Perhaps a cousin?

“Patrek Mallister, my younger brother! I know your fondness for the ocean, princess - Seaguard is a lovely castle,” Joy Belmore calls out.

“Oh yes, it’s a lovely castle right next to the Iron Islands. Are you suggesting the princess go somewhere she can get captured in the next raid?” a willowy blonde Frey girl retorts and Joy turns around and starts furiously defending her childhood home.

“Your grace might I suggest my cousin Lord Beric Dondarrion? I do know how you love music and we marchers are famous for our ballads,” Rose Wylde says excitedly. 

Cersei Lannister is oddly holding herself apart from this tussle and with a leonine smile pops a grape into her mouth, and asks, “Does her grace the Dowager Queen have anything to say on the matter?”

“Her Grace is happy to defer to others,” Rhaella replies tartly.  _ Especially when the last time her Grace interfered in a royal match, the marriage broke up and a war broke out. _

Rhaenys sits as quietly as she can among this maelstrom with her false smile plastered on her face and gently rebuffs them all by telling them that she’s honoured by all their suggestions, but ultimately the decision rests with her father.

Her face is as calm as a still pond but her eyes are darting around wildly and Rhaella can see her nails digging white crescents into the palms of her hands. She is suddenly reminded of something she once saw on one of her walks through the little village on Dragonstone. A farm boy had been dragging a lovely spotted calf through the streets, straight towards the slaughterhouse, while its big gentle eyes rolled around in terror.

“Yes yes yes we all know the princess is very honoured by you throwing your boys at her. The Gods know I’d do it too if I had a boy to throw, but the King will decide so you can stop all this unholy racket,” Lady Steadmon interrupts grouchily. “I’m already half blind. I didn’t come to King’s Landing to go half deaf as well.”

Thankfully, her rude declaration has silenced most of the crowd, although they’d already made most of their suggestions anyways. Dany, her clever girl, has avoided much of the speculation by staying out of sight in the far-flung flower bed she ran into.

Lady Staedmon has an odd look on her face as she looks down at Rhaenys, and Rhaella can see a sad sort of pity and consideration in her eyes.

She must’ve seen Rhaenys’ clenched fists and white knuckles because she gently lays her hand on Rhaenys’ shoulder. “Try not to mind so much, my girl. Men and marriage are the common lot of us women.” She sighs and squeezes Rhaenys’ shoulder. “Take it from me, it will be worse for you in the end if you try to stop it.”

Suddenly, one of the palace guards scuttles down from the path, hurries over to Rhaenys and mutters something quickly to her. She nods sharply, takes her leave of Lady Steadmon and makes her way over to Rhaella.

“Grandmother, has anything dreadful happened recently?” she asks nervously.

“No not that I can recall.”

Rhaenys crosses her arms and flicks her eyes over to where Daenaerys is sitting.“Well you and I have been summoned to Father’s solar on important business. I have no idea what’s so important we need a private evening audience.”

They exchange a look and move into action. Rhaella wants to know whatever it is her son is planning now and sets about finishing everything as quickly as possible. She sees Rhaenys going around making apologies for not staying longer, helping the ladies settle their final purchases, and generally chivvying everyone into leaving as charmingly as possible.

As Rhaella walks briskly to Sera of Myr to order her to begin packing things up she sees another Lannister servant dressed in some gaudy livery run up to Cersei and whisper furiously in her ear. Probably about Joffrey and Jon’s little armoury melee. She wonders what took them so long. 

The smug little smile Cersei wears slides off her face and she pushes past Lana’s outstretched hand, drags Tommen by the elbow while Genna takes Myrcella, and half-walks-half-runs back up towards the castle, still holding the fans she never paid for in her clenched fist. 

The others leave quietly in groups, sensing Rhaella’s worry and how the mood has soured. There are only the artists packing up and a few ladies left when Raella sees Rhaenys and Daenerys walking slowly up to the castle.

Dany is looking at the ground with her hands behind her back, kicking pebbles out of the way and Rhaenys is staring at the sun setting over the ocean, her back as straight as an arrow and her chin tilted up.

“Who do you want to marry, Rhae?” she hears Daenerys ask uncertainty, already sounding fainter in the distance.

“No-one,” she responds, in a flat bitter voice. 

A fork of lightning splits the sky in two and a sudden boom of thunder roars out. While the rain is still spitting down, Rhaella manages to gather the last stragglers up and hurries them inside, running to escape the deluge. 

Whatever conversation they’ll have tonight will likely be uncomfortable enough without her having to sit through it soaking wet. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain has picked up and is beating and howling against the window panes when Rhaella finally makes her way to her son’s solar. 

Rhaenys is already there, staring at her father with the wary look of a fox sizing up a hound. Rhaegar is leaning forward over some scrolls, twisting the signet ring on his ring finger round and round. As Rhaella walks into the room the booming sound of thunder echoes out and they all flinch.

While Rhaegar fiddles around with the papers on his desk, Rhaenys turns and looks at her with a confused smile that breaks Rhaella’s heart. She wishes Rhaenys was still young enough to be consoled with empty promises that everything would be fine. “Good evening Grandmother. Father says he has some important news about me that he would like to share.”

So that woman today wasn’t just repeating idle gossip. The rumours are likely true and Rhaegar has finally decided upon a betrothal for his daughter. She doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like this one bit. It isn’t the betrothal itself – obviously Rhaenys must marry someone. It’s the furtive, underhand way it’s been arranged.

At least Aerys could be trusted to abandon his grandiose ideas almost as soon as he’d had them. With Rhaegar one never knows what mad notion he shall take into his head and stick with through thick and thin.

He is also behaving decidedly strangely. Normally whenever he manages to tear himself away from his books, he cannot wait to be in his daughter’s company. Tonight, it looks like he would rather be anywhere else.

Rhaegar finally seems to pull himself together and with great difficulty, he spits through his words like chewing through a hard bit of meat.“I have decided Rhaenys is to marry Joffrey Lannister. It shall be a reward for all the years of Tywin Lannister’s leal service, as a friend of this family, and my Hand. After your marriage takes place, we shall announce Aegon’s betrothal to Sansa Stark.”

For the briefest moment everything is quiet before the fighting starts. In that moment Rhaella sends up a fervent prayer to the Mother - to the Father - to anyone who is willing to listen to stop this. She has suffered so much in her life. She doesn’t want Rhaenys to suffer as well.

“Joffrey…. Lannister?” Rhaenys seems completely stunned. It’s strange to see someone as self-possessed as her rendered speechless.

“Yes. He’s younger than you, to be sure, but the marriage shall go ahead as soon as possible. I know you shall make a good match of it, my dear.” 

Rhaenys sends her a baffled sideways look. “Father, Joffrey and I despise one another. I fail to see how marrying us off shall make things better.”

“Now, sweetling, you’re exaggerating. I don’t deny you had your little squabbles as children but you are older now and wiser. And a little bit of fighting won’t go amiss. There will be passion between you!” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as her. 

Rhaella can almost see Rhaenys wanting to fling Rhaegar’s “passionate” relationship with Lyanna, which has gotten frostier with each passing year, in his face, but she swallows her words.

Rhaella can’t bear to see Rhaegar trying to justify this anymore; she’d thought he’d announce her betrothal to Willas Tyrell or Edmure Tully. Perhaps Robb Stark if she was unlucky.  _ At worst _ Rhaella thought she would be faced with the prospect of a betrothal to Aegon, and she’d have to tell her grand-children to stamp down their revulsion and get on with it.

“Son,” she says in a strained voice, “Joffrey is not in any way a suitable husband. We’ve all seen how he behaves. There is something very deeply wrong with him.” Good Gods, Rhaella can still remember that poor cat. Cut open from the belly to the throat, with its innards squirming out onto the white marbled floor.

Rhaegar interjects, “Youthful follies do not define us. I’m sure he shall grow to be older and wiser. And Rhaenys shall help him. She shall shape him into the man he needs to be, and be the steady guiding hand he needs.” At this he tries to smile at his daughter who stares back horror struck. 

“ _Youthful follies_ ,” she says in a disbelieving voice. Even for Rhaegar this is beyond the pale. “You call butchering a cat, tormenting his siblings, harassing the servants, and strutting around the Red Keep like he built the damn thing a _youthful folly_?”

Rhaegar seems rather desperate now, he reaches across the table and grabs his daughter's hand and addresses himself to her instead of to his mother. “The Lannister boy will grow out of it, I promise you Rhae. I have faith in you. And he is not undeserving of your hand. He will be a high lord and you shall be a great lady.”

“Joffrey  _ Marbrand _ , you should say; he isn’t actually a Lannister. And unless the customs of inheritance have changed drastically since I learned of them, a son inherits before a grandson. You shall be depriving Tyrion Lannister of his lawful place.” Rhaenys says angrily while snatching her hand back from her father. She can hear the rising rage in her voice.

“Tyrion Lannister will never succeed his father and Ser Jaime refuses to leave the Kingsguard as you well know. Rhaenys, sweetling,  _ listen _ to me, you’ll be the second highest lady in the realm after Aegon’s queen when he marries! Some might say the Rock is Tyrion’s right as Tywin’s son. But I doubt anyone would care to help him if he was passed over and Joffrey was made heir.”

Rhaegar grabs back his daughter’s hand and pats it, while Rhaenys still looks down at her lap. “And why should you care about depriving Tyrion Lannister? His ‘lawful place’? My dear girl, he’s just a dwarf.” 

Rhaenys’ head snaps up at this and Rhaella must stop herself from clapping her hand over her mouth.

As usual, Rhaegar has miscalculated. Rhaenys isn’t Elia, she doesn’t have Elia’s glacial temper. Underneath that delicate little face, lies a rage as towering as any Targaryen. Worse still, she has the eerie knowledge that all young girls seem to have, that allows them to stab exactly at a person’s sorest spot and twist and dig the knife in deeper when they’ve found it. 

“Oh yes, your Grace, I’m sure you of all people wouldn’t care about depriving people of their lawful place,” she says venomously. Rhaegar’s flinches as though he’s been slapped.

Rhaenys stands abruptly, all grace even though she’s trembling with rage. “Do not be afraid Ser, I shan’t cause you any trouble. I’ll marry him.” She gathers her skirts in her hands and spins around, half-running to the door. 

She turns back around when she reaches it, and Rhaella is startled to see her cheeks are wet. She can’t even remember the last time Rhaenys cried. “I wouldn’t mind marrying any man in Westeros, as long as he took me far away from  _ you _ .” And with this parting shot she flings the door open and rushes out. 

“Rhaenys! RHAENYS! Come back!” Rhaegar calls in an anguished voice. He tries to chase after her, but his abrupt rise crashes his pile of scrolls and books to the ground around him. By the time he untangles himself, Rhaenys is long gone and the door has shut behind her.

“Well you handled that splendidly, son. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you _ wanted  _ to hurt her.”

He looks distraught. It’s at moments like these Rhaella feels the overwhelming urge to embrace him, pat his thick silver hair and give him a kiss on the cheek. She talks herself out of it quickly. Rhaegar is not her little boy anymore, the only bit of colour in a world as dry and bleached as a bone. He’s a man grown who would probably appreciate her babying him as much as she appreciates every stupid decision he’s ever made. 

“Of course I don’t want to hurt her!” he responds, in anguish. “She’s my eldest child, my only girl!”

Yes, she’s noticed how much store he sets by his daughter. It is one of the reasons why this match confounds her.

Aegon gets the majority of Rhaegar’s time and tutelage as befits the crown prince, and poor Jon gets whatever scraps of attention Rhaegar can be bothered to bestow on his unexpected second son. But Rhaegar’s love and pride and affection? That is reserved for Rhaenys.

From the moment she was born she’s been her father’s little princess, the apple of his eye. It had been so sweet, to see her melancholy son of all people, cheered by the novelty of fatherhood. Doing something as common as boring his companions by continually boasting of his daughter, and how pretty and precious she was. When her late unlamented husband had announced that Rhaenys ‘smelled Dornish’, Rhaegar had lurched forward like he was going to strike his own father, until he remembered where he was.

It’s only gotten worse since the war ended, Rhaella thinks. When the inexplicable birth of a son had finally awoken Rhaegar from the prophetic stupor he had been in for nigh on a year he’d finally seen how different his daughter had become in his absence. After that he was almost frantic, trying to buy her toys and presents and pets to bring back her old mischievous antics, but the damage had been done.

_ It hasn’t gotten better as she’s grown up _ , Rhaella thinks sadly. The presents just became more expensive, fine dresses and horses and costly tutors instead of kittens and dollies.

All these gifts mean nothing to Rhaenys, of course, because what her granddaughter desires is something that even Rhaegar as the King does not have the power to give her.

What she really wants, Rhaella thinks, is to be a little girl again. Three years old and back on Dragonstone. Together with her mother and her father, in their happy little family, before everything had gone wrong. 

Rhaella is too old and tired for this task. She must somehow make her son see, but how on earth is she to do this where so many other people have failed?

Perhaps Aerys had been right all along. She’d won that battle and lived to see him in his grave but maybe he was correct, and she had been a terrible mother all along. How else to explain her disaster of an eldest son?

“Rhaegar, you and I disagree on many things. I’ve seen you do unbelievable things, and trample on people I held dear and I said nothing. I kept quiet through it all because you were my own son and my King. Listen to me now: this marriage will never be what you want it to be. Joffrey is not Tywin. Rhaenys will not be his Joanna. He won’t love her or respect her or treat her well. You are dooming your little girl, your  _ only daughter _ , in your words, to a life of cruelty.”

Rhaella truly does not know what else to say, or how else to say it, to convince Rhaegar that this idea is disastrous. He must understand, the idea that this match should go through is horrifying. But all is not lost, all he must do is to back down.

Rhaella can’t believe that her son is so far gone. The old Rhaegar she loved and poured all her hopes into is in there somewhere. Surely the same man who sat his daughter on his shoulders and counted the gargoyles with her on Dragonstone does not mean to shackle her to a boy who will ill-treat her?

“Joffrey will do no such thing. Lord Tywin is a hard man, I know, but no one can call him a fool. He knows how angered I would be if any harm were to befall my daughter. He will curb his grandson’s worst impulses.”

_ “Yes _ , _ and what happens when Lord Tywin is dead _ , _ ” _ she wants to ask him. Instead she replies, “Do you not wonder what will happen if this isn’t childish misbehaviour? If Joffrey really is just as bad as we all think? What then?”

“Then I will deal with it!” Rhaegar says, finally snapping and raising his voice. “I grow tired of all this questioning, Mother. I am doing what I do for the greater good of this realm.” He has started pacing back and forth now in agitation. “You do not know,  _ no one knows _ what I go through! But some things must be done and some sacrifices must be made.” 

He turns around and sighs and sits, slumping down in his chair. “Rhaenys will wed Joffrey, and Lord Tywin will help quell any discontent that arises when I betroth Aegon to Sansa. Save your pity for Aegon, mother, he has a harder path ahead of him.”

“A harder path?” she enquires sharply. “What do you mean by a harder path?”

Her son waves his hand dismissively at her and she itches to slap it out of the air. “I would never expect you to understand, Mother. You are far too focused on the present, on individual people. You don’t understand the greater good, the sacrifices we must all make.”

Doesn’t understand sacrifice, does she? Rhaella would wager she understands sacrifice more than anyone in the blasted realm. More than her idiot son, or her weak father, or Jenny of Oldstones’ awful little witch.

She was burnt on the pyre of her family’s ambitions when she was thirteen and she has been sacrificing herself, reducing herself to ashes ever since. And for what? So Rhaenys could grow up and begin the suffering anew?

The prophecy can go to Hell and take her son with it for all she cares. He’s right, she doesn't care about whatever great evil Rhaegar has dreamed up and imagines is coming for them all. She cares about her grandchildren, and Viserys and Daenerys and she wants them to lead mundane lives, as free of mythical creatures and prophecies as possible. 

And he’s wrong. She knows exactly what he means when he talks of sacrifice and Sansa Stark in the same breath.

Rhaella herself read the scrolls. After her marriage to her brother, she too had tried to find meaning in the ancient prophecies. She wanted all her suffering to mean something and was that so wrong?

He probably has some wild notion now that the Stark girl will be Aegon’s Nissa Nissa, and Rhaenys must go to Joffrey to ensure this. That Tywin can somehow prevent the fall-out if Sansa Stark is killed. He should know better.

Rhaella has many grievances with the Starks but she can’t question the accuracy of their sigil. They are wolves. Ned Stark may have gone back to Winterfell to lick his wounds in the wake of his loss at the Trident, but make no mistake, if a hair on Sansa Stark’s head is harmed she has no doubt the Starks will come down from that cold castle of theirs like the pack they are and tear them all limb from limb.

_ Seven save us all _ . At least she got the dubious honour of being the ancestress of a hero. What will Rhaenys have to console herself with? Can she take pride in her hand in marriage being given away so her brother could murder his wife?

Rhaegar shakes his head and pulls some documents towards himself, clearly wanting to finish this. “I am doing what needs to be done, mother. Were you in my place, with my burdens, you would do the same thing.”

He really is a fool, this son of hers. “Are you mad?” and oh how that must sting with how touchy their whole family is about madness. “Give my only daughter’s hand to  _ Tywin _ ?” Rhaella says scornfully, rising up to her full height. “I wouldn’t so much as give him the sorriest dog in the kennels.”

She is breathing hard and must take several deep breaths to lower her voice. With forced calmness, she continues. “Very well, my son,” she says, and she couldn’t be more ominous if she rained down curses, or swore on the seven pointed star. “I wash my hands of the matter.”

Oh, she is certainly going to be washing her hands of this matter, but not quite the way he expects. She’s done everything she can. She has tried to reason with him, but as per usual he is too blinded by his prophecies to see sense. Whatever happens after this isn’t her fault, it's his.

The thought of her little Rhaenys going to that demon Tywin calls a grandson is incomprehensible. When Elia had married Rhaegar she’d promised Loreza she would take care of her daughter in the pit that is King’s Landing, and she had failed.

She couldn’t do anything for Loree’s daughter, but she’ll be damned if she breaks a promise to her old friend yet again. Rhaenys is her granddaughter, and she’s Loree’s granddaughter too, and she will be kept safe at all costs.

The storm is still raging, and as Rhaella strides to the door a flash of lightning illuminates every dusty tome and yellowed scroll around her.

She turns around and looks back into the room. Rhaegar is sitting slumped over his desk with his head in his hands, clutching at the roots of his hair. It’s strange to say it but in the flickering light of the candles and the occasional flash of lightning from the storm, Rhaella can see her son more clearly than she has in years.

He’s a tired man of middle age who has wasted half his life chasing dreams. Both the women he married loathe him, his siblings avoid him, and each of his children have a different grievance with him. He can barely have one conversation with his own mother that does not descend into an argument.

What does he have besides his prophecy? Who is there left? No-one and nothing. He is all alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is a sequel to my previous fic but you don't have to have read that one to understand what's going on here! I'm really sorry this took so long but uni and life got in the way. 
> 
> 2\. In this story Rhaegar is someone who has won the ultimate emotional pyrrhic victory. Another such victory and he is undone! While he technically achieved his goals of making Lyanna his wife and having a third legitimate child (although Jon isn't a girl) this was done at the expense of every single close/loving relationship in his life. He's definitely feeling it now that he's older, lonelier, and has yet to achieve tangible results. 
> 
> 3\. I’ve tagged this appropriately so if I see one more person complaining about how I’m not being fair to R/L I will straight up delete comments without responding. This isn’t a fic-tocracy it’s a fic-tatorship. I’m trying to depict a realistically unhappy marriage here not a fucking hallmark card. 
> 
> 4\. If anything, the most important “love-story” in this fic is the familial love between Rhaella and Rhaenys. Listen guys, I love Rhaella so much. She faced nothing but suffering for most of her life but was a kind and good person! She PUBLICLY went against her abusive, pyromaniac husband and his racist rhetoric about their granddaughter! Rhaella was in appreciable physical danger and she somehow managed to stick up for Rhaenys more than Rhaegar ever did. Queen of Westeros and Queen of my Heart. 
> 
> 5\. Rhaenys, Jon, and Aegon were all raised together in the Red Keep, but they certainly are not one big happy family. The circumstances surrounding Jon’s birth, the state of Lyanna and Rhaegar’s marriage, the racism towards the Dornish, and the divisions in the court contribute to make it a deeply toxic and unhealthy environment for all three of them. Poor bubs ☹. Daenerys and Viserys have gotten off lightly in comparison but it’s still a…. less than ideal situation to grow up in. 
> 
> 6\. I've based Rhaella on Empress Maria Feodorovna who was the mother of Tsar Nicholas II (the last Tsar of Russia). If you would like to see some examples from her fan collection they can be found here:  
> https://aw-laurendet.tumblr.com/post/165532232360/ohsoromanov-a-collection-of-fans-belonging-to/amp
> 
> Here is the fan I had in mind when describing Rhaella's jade fan: https://www.tumbex.com/fatamon.tumblr/post/189414361225/folding-fan-of-empress-maria-feodorovna-c-1867
> 
> 7\. Next chapter Elia/Baelor and Rhaegar/Lyanna, and Ashara will be making more of an appearance. Along with a special guest! Also if you've read my previous story we'll be finding out the identity of the ~mysterious~ High Septon.
> 
> 8\. Aegon and Sansa ARE NOT betrothed yet. I think I may have forgotten to write this explicitly in the fic but Rhaegar is hoping that once the Lannister/Targaryen match is established he can use Tywin to force Ned to betroth Sansa. Obviously this is a very stupid plan to anyone with the most basic knowledge of the north, and a functioning pair of human braincells. 
> 
> 9\. I am on tumblr at tweedstoat.tumblr.com if you would like to see me make asoiaf memes, ask me questions, or just hang out!


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